


Spitfire

by shimere277



Category: Drake's Venture (1980)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Pirate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimere277/pseuds/shimere277
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Supreme Commander Drake takes a wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spitfire

**Author's Note:**

> The _Nuestra Señora de la Concepción_ was nicknamed the _Çacafuego_, "Spitfire," by her crew, but the English referred to her as the _Cacafuego_, "Shitfire."
> 
> For a little extra inspiration with this one, I went to the Seventh Sanctum generators. I received this prompt: pirate dystopia. I spent four days on this, and it isn't vaguely like "pirate dystopia." But it is a weird pirate AR, and Thomas gets laid.

            "When shalt thou take a wife?" asked Admiral-Exaltate Grace O'Malley.  She and Supreme Commander Drake were old friends who had worked together often.  The fact that by descent he was English and she was Irish meant nothing to them – they were _pirates_.  Every pirate had to be born somewhere, although the lucky ones were born on ship.  It was considered in poor taste to remind the others that they had some association, however tenuous, with dry land.  
            Every time she met up with Drake, she teased him about marriage.  It was a common belief among his mariners that he would never wed.  Oh, he had that little concubine, Mary, back in Plymouth – the one he'd bought at the slave market of London.  But not a proper wife, not married the proper way of a seafarer.  
            "When Queen Elizabeth gets close enough to the sea," answered Drake, to the general merriment of his crew.  "Really – this business of marriage – no landsman would ever be worth the trouble, no matter the status."  Concubines could be bought, whores could be had, as many as one liked.  And one could also have liaisons with fellow-pirates, but never marriage.  To a pirate, marriage was something very particular – the taking of a bride from amongst the landsmen.  The word "taking," in their tradition, was quite literal.  A spectacular abduction added to a buccaneer's renown.  It was a practice that promoted daring and audacity amongst the pirates, and it was a wise political policy as well.  Landsmen of any social status whatsoever tended to stay well away from the coastlines, making it that much easier for the Pirate Armada to retain control.  
            "How about Milord Essex?" the Admiral pressed.  She herself had abducted a handsome Irish lord many years previous, but kept him locked in a tower near the village of his birth.  She preferred to travel unencumbered, as she said.  Others liked to bring their wives with them, often keeping them nailed under the hatches or chained in the hold.  The lucky ones found wives who accepted their new lives and managed some small service on the boats – cooking in the mess, perhaps.  Usefulness was valued, even among the wives of the greatest chieftains.  
            More out of boredom than any real interest, Drake continued the conversation.  "Is he handsome?"  
            O'Malley shrugged.  "Fair enough.  A coward at the root, though.  When he came to Ireland a few years back, he insisted that I be the one to convey his troops – he knew I was already married."  
            Drake sneered.  "A damned coward indeed – no pirate would ever break a contractual truce, especially to take a wife.  A bridal abduction is a matter of honor."  
            "Ahoy, Commander," yelled young John Drake.  "There's Dublin."  
            "To business, then," said Drake.  "We shall see if we can bleed them dry."

            Walter Devereux Lord Essex had engaged the Pirate Armada to settle a bit of trouble he'd been having with some Scotsmen on RathlinIsland.  He had avoided dealing with the problem for quite some time, as the pirate king Aethylrik was well aware.  The pirates knew everything; all communication, commerce and travel by water was regulated by them.  Since the beginning of their empire, they'd kept the landsmen under control by deciding when and where nations could interact.  Any alliances which threatened the pirate hegemony were quickly quashed.  And nations which tried to acquire navies of their own were attacked, their ports razed to the ground, their boys and women taken in slavery.  
            And so Aethylrik also knew that Queen Elizabeth had demanded the Earl take effectual action to subdue Ireland.  After conferring with his counselors, Aethylrik determined that assisting the English was harmless to pirate interests: Essex would only waste time and resources on an ultimately futile endeavor.  Thus the King gave the enterprise his blessing.  
            Aethylrik – on the pretense of being helpful, but in reality, amused at the prospect of intimidating Essex – had sent the two most effective commanders in the region: Supreme Commander Drake and Admiral-Exaltate Grace O'Malley.  Indeed, Essex was so intimidated that he ordered a retainer to attend the preliminary parley in his stead.  "Thou shalt be in no danger," he assured.  
            _Then wherefore not attend to your own affairs?_ Thomas Doughtie asked silently, but outwardly he smiled.  
            "The pirates hold themselves to honorable truce while business is being discussed," Devereux added.  "And they really want no trouble.  They could not survive without resources – wood and metal for their ships – and it would deplete them sorely to have to raid for everything.  As long as we break not the rules, they shall keep them."       
            Doughtie wasn't surprised at being given such a miserable mission.  Ever since that dust-up with Leicester, he'd been the public fall-guy for the private feud of the two lords.  Essex assigned every undesirable task to him, knowing full well that Doughtie had done nothing but speak truth, done nothing but his duty as he saw it.  At least some were acquainted with the real story behind Doughtie's public humiliation: Lord Burghley had promised to reward him with a plush civil-service job upon his return to London.  But the more entrenched the English became in Ireland, the more his bright future in London receded into the distance.  
            As it was, Doughtie didn't really mind meeting the pirates.  It would be a little excitement.  That's why he'd come to Ireland in the first place – a little excitement.  It certainly wasn't for the money: he hadn't even been paid since he arrived.  In fact, Essex used him as an open checkbook wherever they went.  The Lord owed him close to £150, and Doughtie would certainly be keeping the receipt for the bar bill tonight.  Pirates were notorious drinkers.

            Doughtie arrived early for the meeting.  He knew when the pirates entered without turning to face the door: the tavern had gone absolutely silent.  He decided to wait until they approached before he stood – to show respect, but no fear, no undue deference.  When he turned to them, he recognized the pirate queen O'Malley from the journey across to Dublin.  Compact and scruffy, she looked like she could punch out a bull in rut.  Doughtie had always rather liked her spirit.  
            The man at her side had to be Supreme Commander Drake.  He had quite a reputation – for courtesy, or ruthlessness, depending on the circumstance.  He looked better in person, which surprised Doughtie.  Most portraits conceal a lot of flaws.  But Drake had a certain energy, a certain magnetism which didn't translate well through painting.  Doughtie stood.  
            He held out his hand.  The pirate commander took it, grasped it firmly, held it just a little too long.  It sent a shiver down Doughtie's spine.  "Walter Devereux?" asked Drake.  Thomas grinned.  "I am afeared that Milord Essex was detained upon affairs of state.  I am Thomas Doughtie, one of his gentlemen retainers."  
            Drake sniffed.  "Essex is a coward indeed," he huffed as Thomas kissed the hand of O'Malley.   
            "Thomas Doughtie - I remember you," she said.  "Quite the elegant courtier.  A warrior also.  Why does Essex send you in his place?"  
            "Because I have both a legal background and a keen attentiveness to finance."  _Two attributes which my lord lacks_, he added silently, _as well as a backbone_.  
            "I care not for law," grumbled Drake.  "I will do what I will do."  
            _I should bet upon it_, thought Doughtie.  "The question is more of what King Aethylrik will do.  We are prepared to pay him £300 for the taking of RathlinIsland."  
            "An insult!" said O'Malley, slamming her fist upon the table.  
            "We just want the island.  A piece of real estate.  What remains upon it when you leave matters not."  Doughtie tried to keep his smile unwavering although the proposal made him ill.  This was the bargain his lord had commanded.  Offer less money, let them keep what they find.  Let them keep, for example, the women and children of the soldiers they kill.  
            "You look ill-pleased, Master Doughtie," Drake observed.  
            "Far be it from me to criticize the actions of My Lord Essex."  
            "To sell off women and children is the action of a dog," said Drake.  
            "We would have taken them anyway," said O'Malley, dismissively.  "Five hundred."  
            "Four -  but then we shall provide the soldiers.  All you have to do is convey them."  
            "Done," said Drake.  "On one condition.  You accompany us.  We will only deal with you."  
            Doughtie looked fit to swallow his own tongue.  
            "And you pay for the ale," added O'Malley.  "Barkeep!"

            By the time they left the tavern, O'Malley was well in her cups.  Drake was also intoxicated, but it wasn't the ale.  "I have heard tell of that Doughtie," said O'Malley.  "A better soldier than a diplomat, they say."  
            "Indeed," said Drake, "he looks like a fine gentleman."  He tried to sound casual about it, but he had scarcely been able to tear his eyes away all evening.  It wasn't just Doughtie's elegant dress, his fine manners, his handsome face.  Drake had felt overcome by destiny – there was some great thing at the end of this, love or death.  He wasn't sure which.  
            "Italianate," said O'Malley.  "Not my type."  She paused, stopping in the street and facing her companion.  "Thine?  Thou hast a right liking for amenities – plate, musicians, perfumes…"  
            "A very fine gentleman," said Drake.  
            "He is beneath your station," O'Malley scoffed.  "What happened to the Queen of England?"  Drake did not answer.  "Surely, thou art not serious?  While we deal with the English, we are under truce.  Try to take him, and there could be war."  
            "I care not!  I will do…"  
            "…what you will do.  Everybody knows that.  But thou canst shew prudence in the matter.  Wait until after Rathlin.  Wait until we are not under contract.  Observe him close.  After all, a pirate takes but one wife.  If he is still to thy liking, I shall help thee in the abduction."  
            After some exhortation, O'Malley got him to grudgingly agree.  Drake was quite certain, however, that he would not change his mind.

            There was little opportunity for the pirates to take anything from Rathlin, so enthusiastic were the English soldiers.  Drake watched the butchery from the ships.  "A waste," he muttered to himself.  "Lives are worth money."  
            Doughtie had indeed been sent with the soldiers, but the person really in charge of the troops was Norris.  Drake had wondered why Essex hadn't trusted Doughtie.  But when he saw the gentleman's reaction, he understood.  At first, Doughtie had tried to intercede, then he complained to Norris about the undisciplined action of the men.  
            "They need to vent their aggressions," Norris replied.  "Are you sure your stomach is strong enough for Ireland?"  
            After the initial surrender, Doughtie returned to the ships.  It was bad enough to witness the massacre.  He would not be a party to the extermination of the survivors hiding outside the fortress.  "There is no honor in this," he said, staring into the distance.  
            "No profit either," said Drake.  
            Doughtie regarded him coolly.  "Is that all life means to you – a sum of money?"  
            "Aye.  Pray that you need not face the day you find out the cost of yours."  
            Doughtie grinned broadly.  "From a distance, Commander Drake, you have the veneer of a civilized man.  But at heart, you are a barbarian."  
            "_Supreme_ Commander," Drake snapped.  "And I think you English have more than your share of civilized barbarians.  I did not order this."  
            Doughtie turned away in silence.  Drake had said what he had not dared.  Norris disgusted him.  Essex disgusted him more.  When he returned to Dublin, bringing back the news of the victory, the Earl practically chortled with glee, feeling quite self- congratulatory.  "Broughton, take a message to London.  Tell the Queen of my resplendent victory."  
            "I shall take the message," said Doughtie.  
            "I would be a fool to allow thee anywhere near London, after the last fiasco."  That last fiasco, of course, being that Doughtie had caught Essex's wife _in flagrante delicto_ with Leicester, and was foolish enough to report the truth back to his lord.  
            "I merely wished to save you the expense of sending one of your retainers, since I am leaving for London anyway," said Doughtie.  "I am afraid Master Norris was correct – I have not the stomach for Ireland."           

            "He called thee a barbarian," said O'Malley.  
            Drake nodded.  "He has courage – I grant him that." Drake licked his lips.  "It will be a challenge to break him."  
            "He has even more courage to set foot on any ship after such an insult – courage, or foolhardiness."  
            "He has a most intemperate tongue," said Drake.  "And his honor outstrips his better sense.  I think I like that about him."  
            O'Malley laughed.  "Thou thinkest."  
            "In good measure, it could be the very spice of love.  But in excess…" Drake looked thoughtful.  "The taming of this spitfire could be most delightful."  
            "Thou art besotted," sneered O'Malley.  "He is only a gentleman retainer.  And after his remark, there is ample justification to have him killed, ravished, sold into slavery.  And he makes the way easy by careless travel."  
            "Aye," said Drake.  "Too easy.  I will not deign to have him such.  I must think upon this."           

            In order for Drake to maintain his reputation, it was necessary for the abduction to be a great exploit indeed.  And so he waited for almost a year before acting – then nabbed the Queen's favorite, Christopher Hatton, from the very streets of London. Drake scarcely dodged a musket ball fleeing to the ships, and was lucky to have O'Malley guarding his back.  She was happy enough to assist, both to fulfill her oath to Drake and for the glory of the adventure.   
            "Art certain 'tis not thy desire to keep him instead?" she asked.  "He is extremely pretty. No wonder the Queen likes him.  And I have heard he dances well."  
            Hatton squirmed miserably against the ropes.  "The Queen will pay to have me released.  Just let me send a letter to her…"  
            "Perhaps I shall reconsider," said Drake.  "Mayhap I shall take you as my bride."  
            Hatton blanched in horror.  
            O'Malley's laughter was loud, barking.  "Indeed, he should make a fine sea-wife – if he did not retch out the whole of his innards at the first sign of storm."  
            "Aye, I think I should soon be a widower," said Drake.  "But the prestige of supping on the Queen's mutton might be worth it."  
            "I shall give anything you want," Hatton pleaded.  
            Drake pretended to look thoughtful. In reality, behavior like Hatton's – so typical of a landsman - was one of the reasons Drake had been put off marriage for so long.  How could anyone stand to be saddled for life with a wilting flower such as this?  Obviously Queen Elizabeth agreed with Drake – or she would have married Hatton herself.  "A thousand pounds," he said finally, "and someone to take your place in my bed."  
            "Take my place?" Hatton gasped.  "No one in their right mind would…not, of course that there wouldn't be certain recompenses…being in your company…"  
            "This one's tongue is far more tempered," said O'Malley.  She grabbed Hatton by the beard.  "I see why thou dost prefer a sharper blade."  
            "I did not think to ask the good permission of your replacement," said Drake.  "I have set my heart upon him despite his low birth."  
            Hatton dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.  "Who is the man you want?"  
            "Your secretary."  
            "I see," said Hatton.  He could hardly give an English citizen over to the pirates.  And Doughtie - Lord Burghley was not going to be happy about this.  "I'll send him with the ransom money," Hatton decided.  "What you do with him after is not my concern."  
            Drake clenched and unclenched his fists.  The man's cowardice was appalling.  "Then sign a bond," insisted O'Malley, "stating that you give him to us." Hatton flinched as she thrust the quill towards him.  "'Swounds, man, your people need never know of your betrayal.  We would, however, that _our_ people know _our_ hands be clean, that we did not break truce in the taking of your retainer."  
            The transaction complete, Drake settled back in his chair to wait.  Tonight, if all went as planned, he would finally have Doughtie under his control.

            Usually when captives were brought before Drake, they acted like Hatton – terrified, begging, broken.  Or they had more mettle in them, and came kicking and screaming.  But Doughtie entered with an inappropriate cocksureness, a little smile on his face.  He pushed the thousand pounds across the table.  "The ransom from Master Hatton," he said, smiling.  "Surprisingly low, if I might say."  
            "Thou wert part of the arrangement," said Drake, keeping his eyes steadily upon the gentleman, who did not break his gaze.  
            "I thought as much," said Doughtie.  He had been suspicious from the moment he heard that he would be dealing with Drake.  Nevertheless, he hoped that his disappointment with Hatton's loyalty did not show in his face.  In a way, it was a bitter pill, but hardly unforeseen.  In his dealings at court, he had learned all too well that the whole of the Queen's council could be corrupted with money – except Lord Burghley, the only honest one in the lot.  
            "I intend to have thee as my wife."  
            This _was_ a surprise to Doughtie, and it sent a thrill up his spine, both unexpected and annoying.  His plan would be much more difficult to execute if desire and honor got in the way.  Whose honor and whose desire were things he didn't even want to think about.  "I wish to make a bargain for my freedom – I have information of interest to you.  One of your most trusted captains is in collusion with a landsman government, cheating your king out of his rightful share of profits to be made.  Lord Burghley has known for some years – but has not wished to provoke trouble with our enemies by reporting the truth."  
            Now it was Drake who was caught off guard.  He had hardly anticipated that Doughtie would try to bargain – and to play such a powerful hand.  If there was the slimmest chance that the allegations were true, Drake had to have the information.  Nothing was so despised among pirates as a traitor to their kind.  
            Doughtie continued.  "I want certain assurances.  You will need to mount an expedition to remedy the situation – I want to accompany it.  And when you claim what is yours, I want a percentage of the take.  I think 2% will be fair."  
            Drake couldn't believe the gentleman's audacity.  It was infuriating – it was adorable.  "Surprisingly low, if I may say," Drake replied with some measure of sarcasm.  
            "You know not the nature of the take.  Do I have your word?"  
            Drake turned away from Doughtie.  His loins fought with his loyalty.  If he agreed to Doughtie's terms, the gentleman would remain under his protection for an indefinite amount of time.  Ravishment would be out of the question.  But to keep his desire in check was impossible – his whole body ached from wanting Doughtie so much.  He had long anticipated his wedding night, and felt as if he would die if he did not have the gentleman helpless in his bed before sunset.  
            He weighed this against the great profit to be had.  An underreported cargo was immediately forfeit.  The officer making the seizure split half the take with his men, the other half to go to the King.  He turned back to Doughtie, weighing the gentleman's measure – the arrogance of his stance, the strength of his body.  Drake wondered if he would break under torture, giving up the necessary information.  The Supreme Commander concluded that Doughtie was probably tough enough to require extreme tactics – and he didn't want to damage that delicious form permanently.  
            But there was also honor to consider, and the peace of his household.  Giving in to Doughtie would damage Drake's reputation; it would also probably mean that the gentleman would try to push his luck at every occasion.  Make this deal, and there were only two possibilities at the end – Drake would ravish Doughtie later, the gentleman would continue in his intransigence, and Drake would eventually be forced to kill him.  Or Drake would let Doughtie go, the idea that Doughtie was in some other man's bed would fester until it was a rotten wound, and then Drake would take a raiding party ashore to kill Doughtie.  _I will do what I will do_, thought Drake.  _In the end, 'tis for his own good_.  "No deal."  
            "What?"  Doughtie was obviously surprised, his arrogant grin dissolving.  "But you can hardly afford not to know…"  
            "I will not bargain with a prisoner, no matter the prize.  I dictate the terms here.  And I will have the information – one way or another.  I would prefer that thou didst give it to me without the need for any ungentle persuasions."  Drake rose, moving until he was only inches away from Doughtie.  The gentleman scowled, still defiant even though he was bound.  Drake was close enough to feel the heat of his breath.  "Face the truth, Thomas Doughtie," Drake said, stroking the gentleman's cheek.. "I will have thee – but whether I treat thee in the fashion of a queen, placing the world's riches at thy feet, or whether I keep thee chained to the bed, forcing my way with thee – that is for thee to decide."  
            A thousand contradictory thoughts went through Doughtie's head.  Outrage at the position in which he had been placed.  Anger – at Drake, but more at Hatton, Essex, all the great men of his time for whom honor meant little and spilled blood less – as long as there was money at the root.  What matter to these powerful and unscrupulous lords that Doughtie's life was in ruins?  
            But Thomas had to admit that it wasn't a terribly satisfying life to begin with.  He could have returned to the horror that was Ireland.  Or he could have spent his life trying to curry favor, perhaps clawing his way to the top through lies and treacheries.  Would life as Drake's pampered pet be any worse?  He was also smart enough to know that escape would be nearly impossible.  And if he tried and failed, Drake would probably break his legs.  Resistance would mean a life of privation, humiliation and torture.  
            And yet all he truly had left was his own honor – his pride in his accomplishments, his breeding, his behavior.  He was not ready to submit himself to this sort of degradation willingly, no matter how attractive it might sound, no matter if a part of him thought that giving himself to Drake could be rather delightful.   
            And then, after standing so close to Drake for so long, Doughtie saw, really saw Drake's face.  His expression was childlike, expectant and yet wary, as though a slim hope propped open the gates of paradise.  It was clear also that they could slam shut at any minute, loosing the forces of hell.  _He's in love with me_, Doughtie realized.  _I can leverage this_.  _But if I spurn him, he will take his broken heart out on my hide_.  
            The thought was almost enough to spur him into perverse refusal.  He was no coward, to back down from fear of Drake's jealous rage.  But again, he saw Drake's expression, pathetically besotted, and he had to admit there was something adorable about the way Drake swooned over him.  
            Going with Drake would be the adventure he had always wanted – and any man so passionate in love and rage had to be good in bed.  Doughtie took a deep breath.  _I think I am falling in love_, he said to himself, and his mood brightened considerably.  A man's obeisance for the sake of love did not compromise his honor.  This was the crucial factor in his decision.  "Captain San Juan de Anton is holding out on you.  The silver ship is carrying far more than listed on the cargo manifest."  
            "The silver ship!  The most richly laden treasure ship in the world – think of the profit!"  Drake was overjoyed at both the unanticipated possibility of wealth and the unexpected compliance of his beloved.  He embraced Doughtie, all of the love and desire he had held in careful suspension suddenly spilling like seawater through a hull pounded by storm.  He was now desperate to prove that Doughtie had chosen rightly, that fidelity to Drake would have rewards beyond the gentleman's wildest imaginings.  "Thou shalt have more than two percent, my bride, paid in jewels and silks and sweet perfumes.  I shall make thee a finer gentleman than ever thou wert on land."   
            Suddenly, it occurred to Doughtie that he was, in a peculiar way, marrying up.  Surely the wife of the Supreme Commander of the Pirate Armada far exceeded the rank of simple courtier.  His bizarre change in circumstance made him giddy.  To hell with England and the crown - he would break every one of their damn sumptuary laws out of spite.  "I shall require attire fitting for the wife of such an important sea chieftain," he declared.  "Perhaps a doublet of purple velvet all embroidered in gold wire.  And hose of purple silk, and a cloak to match the doublet, but with a trim of ermine.  And a formal collar of starched lace and gold foil."   
            "I shall supply whatever finery pleases thee," said Drake.  "The manner in which you dress is no odds to me.  My concern is with the manner in which you undress."  
            Doughtie found himself flushed with heat, and turned his head away shyly.    "When is our marriage to be accomplished?"  
            "There is no formal ceremony as in a landsman wedding.  'Tis a matter of conquest.  I take my pleasure of thee – and then announce to my mariners that I accept and claim thee as my bride.  Then thou wilt forever be marked out from the common weal – none of my men will dare lay hand 'pon thee, unlike the concubines of general use."  
            Doughtie shuddered.  "Would you have done that to me if I had refused you – given me over to be a common whore?"  
            "Nay, Thomas," Drake said, running his hand through the gentleman's thick, dark hair.  "I would have done my best to tame thee, but if I could not break thee, I would have killed thee before allowing another the sport of what I so desire."  
            _I was right_, thought Doughtie.  _He is a barbarian_.  The gentleman found this both thrilling and disturbing.  He sat on Drake's bed, slowly removing his doublet, his boots, his hose.  Drake watched him with unflinching intensity.  Doughtie found himself trembling with both fear and desire, but he struggled to maintain his dignity, laying back on the bed languidly in the manner of a practiced seducer.  
            Drake climbed atop him, fully dressed, claiming a kiss so savage and passionate that it took Doughtie's breath away.  "Long I have waited for thee," said Drake.  "I set my sights upon thee the moment we met in Ireland."  
            "So long ago," said Doughtie coquettishly.  "Your desire for me must not have been great to suffer so long a delay."  
            "Nay, Thomas Doughtie.  'Twas that thou didst insult me – thus necessitating that the taking of thee be a great exploit."  Drake did not add that Thomas really was beneath his station.  He saw no point in returning the insult, especially now that Thomas was being so delightfully pliant.  "The whole while of our parting, I did burn with desire."  
            "I?  Insult thee?"  Doughtie regarded the possibility with some alarm.  
            "Thou didst call me a barbarian."  
            Thomas laughed.  "Verily, I stand by that estimation.  But take it not for an insult – compared to such civilized men as I have known, it portends a certain honest directness."  
            "Aye," said Drake, pleased with the idea.  "And I see such directness doth stoke thy desire."  Doughtie could hardly protest the opposite, seeing that he could feel the wild pounding of his heart all the way to the tip of his throbbing cock.  
            Drake stripped quickly, returning to the bed with a bowl of perfumed cream.  "For this purpose especial," he said.  "We are not savages, like the landsmen, who hide the healthy love betwixt men, and thus reduce themselves to furtive groping."  
            "I see you have never traveled to Italy," said Doughtie.  "Not every land is as backwards as Britain in such regards."  Remembering some of the details of his Italian adventure, Doughtie blushed again.  He wondered how Drake would respond to a few of the more advanced techniques of pleasure.  
            Drake found the display of such modesty in the arrogant gentleman provocative in the extreme.  Without further ado, he prepared the gentleman for the siege and made ready the attack.  But since he had waited so long to satisfy his end, he was determined to make his enjoyment last.  And he wanted to dote upon his beautiful wife, prove to him that no landsman would ever pleasure him with such skill, love him with such intensity.  
            Drake was delighted to discover that Thomas was extremely vocal in his lovemaking.  Every mariner on the _Pelican_ heard Doughtie's moans and cries of delight for the better part of an hour.  
            "Best wedding I have attended in years," said O'Malley, helping herself to some of Drake's finest rum.

            Once it was clear that Doughtie was a cooperative bride, the mariners showed him no disrespect – far from it.  They opened doors for him, stood in his presence, seated him at table.  They treated him with the same courtesy and deference due a high-born lady of his homeland.  
            Raised in a culture where manhood was everything, Doughtie found himself torn in two.  A part of him resented this treatment.  A part of him loved it.  It was very nice indeed to be taken care of  and coddled.  As did most men of his era, there had been times when he wondered how women could possibly bear their lives.  Now he understood that there were compensations.  He understood also that Good Queen Bess was not the exception amongst her sex – that any clever wife knew well how to rule her household.  He found rather than by challenge and sniping, he could best get his way with sly smiles and the gentle rubbing of Drake's tired feet.  For example, Drake, impatient to get his hands upon the wealth of the silver ship, wanted to travel directly to Peru, risking a dangerous passage through the Straits of Magellan.  Doughtie argued that the treasure ship would have to return to Spain, and that they could far more easily lie in wait off the coast of Africa.  Drake vehemently disagreed, but Doughtie pouted and batted his kohl-rimmed eyes.  After a few days, Drake had to admit that Thomas was right.  Besides, he couldn't refuse anything to his lovely wife – especially after another demonstration of Doughtie's advanced Italianate learning.  
            While in Africa, Doughtie came to appreciate that the status he had achieved in the pirate nation was far greater than he could have aspired to in England.  He also realized that Drake had indeed married for love, married a little beneath him.  And so he did everything in his power to prove himself worthy of his new station in life.  Noting how much trouble other pirate chieftains had with their wives, he made a point of fawning over Drake in public.  It was not so different, really, from the way courtiers were supposed to behave.  Drake strutted around, a puffed-up penguin, wearing Doughtie like a jewel on his arm, like some gorgeous amethyst set in gold.  The other captains glared at Drake enviously, grumbling beneath their breaths that the Supreme Commander had grown soft.  
            All doubts about Drake's battle-readiness were laid to rest when they finally met up with the silver ship.  The battle was intense, for the crew of the 'Çacafuego' knew what was at stake.  But no one expected, when the Supreme Commander slipped and fell in front of his foe, that his lovely wife would leap to his defense, grabbing a sword from a dead soldier and charging into the thick of the fray.  Drake's crew was taken by surprise, the enemy more so.  No one had ever heard of such a thing.  By the victorious end, Doughtie was covered in sweat and blood and soot from the canon.  It was then that Drake made his oft-repeated jibe to the treacherous San Juan de Anton: "I call thy ship 'Cacafuego," for my wife is more çacafuego than all thy crewmen."  The name stuck, and Doughtie was forever known as the Commander's Spitfire.  
            Indeed, the mariners marveled that a landsman would show such unwavering fortitude, such unwavering fidelity, and wondered what curse had fallen upon Doughtie that he had not been born a pirate, for truly he was one in spirit.  There was only one time when Doughtie ever showed the least lack of courage.  It was when King Aethylrik convened his council at the Isle of True Justice for the trial and execution of de Anton.  "God save me from attending such an event in this cursed place," he said.  
            "An end to all traitors," Drake cried, raising the head as the pirates cheered.  But it was horrible, really – edifying, but horrible, and he was never so happy to return to his cabin, to a life of luxury and honor, but most of all to his wife, who lay waiting in his bed, his wife, whom Drake treasured, worshipped, absolutely loved to death.   


End file.
